


proclivity

by DrSchaf



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Unsafe Sex, a wee bit unhealthy, but nothing major
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Starved for contact without ever being denied contact, he's clung to Connor for a while now, and if this is what Connor wants in return, it's all right.





	proclivity

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to chainsawlicker aka the best beta I could've hoped for :)
> 
> Side note: This started out as a scene for a different story before it developed a life on its own, so the premise of Murphy having trouble with his leg might -- eh, come up in some more (three) stories. I am sorry :D

“One too many?”

Murphy looks at the ceiling. It's bland and immobile like a ceiling should be, so he shakes his head.

“Me neither.”

“That is good,” Murphy states because he's in the mood to talk or at least to not go to bed yet, and it's late enough there's nothing on TV but porn and conspiracy theories.

“Yeah? Why's that?”

Murphy snatches the smoke from Connor's fingers and blinks until he has to admit he forgot what they were talking about. It probably wasn't important. The smoke, on the other hand, is almost done. There's barely a drag left, and he sighs in dismay. “Gimme another,” he demands.

“What's wrong with that one?”

“It's wet like ye sucked the whole thing into yer mouth,” Murphy says, grinning around the stump while Connor, the agile bastard, pulls his legs up on the couch and folds them without looking uncomfortable.

“And yet ye smoke it anyway,” Connor points out, but he does light a new smoke and switches them out. “So it doesn't really bother ye.”

“Suppose not,” Murphy says. The conversation doesn't make sense, so he lowers his eyebrows, just in case. “What's the catch here?”

“There is none.” Connor smiles, bright and creepy. “That yer last one? I can get ye to bed, after.”

Trying to muster the energy to be offended, Murphy blows smoke at him, but he isn't drunk enough to tell him he's in favor of staying up, sitting here in the wee hours, not drunk and not quite sober, with the prospect of sleeping in and nowhere to be tomorrow. It's nice, is all. “I can do it on my own, ye know,” Murphy says to keep the conversation going and also because he's right. That's what the crutch is for, after all.

“I know ye can.”

For a bit, they're quiet.

When his smoke is done and Connor doesn't seem fond of watching TV any longer, Murphy caves with a sigh. “Help me up, then.”

The order gets Connor moving at once. He winds his arm around Murphy's back as Murphy hooks his own over Connor's shoulder, hand fisted into his shirt, and then they're up with a grunt. The way from the couch to the bed - from anywhere to anywhere - consists of hopping and letting Connor take his weight. He hasn't complained once since Murphy took the tumble down the stairs and he had to _carry_ him to a cab, fucking embarrassing. At least the cast is gone now, though brace stayed and his knee still twinges like nothing good nonetheless.

Something with his ligaments that costs them too much money to make any sense.

“Here we go,” Connor mutters as he hauls him the last steps, turning on the spot, sort of flailing—

They plop down arse first, bed creaking under their weight.

Murphy rolls away to escape Connor's scrambling. “Thanks,” he says when he's out of harm's way, and then he gets comfortable even though he isn't ready for bed yet.

Connor squeezes his ankle, smiling down at him with a line on his forehead. “All right?”

“I'm dying,” Murphy says.

Something clatters in the sink, ominously, and Connor turns to look at it, fingers circling tighter around his ankle as if they do it on their own. The thought is nice enough Murphy almost feels like admitting he only agreed to go to bed already so Connor would help him, but in the end, the simple fact of fingers around his ankle isn't _that_ nice, so instead of admitting to something that has no consequence anyway, Murphy pokes his toe into the soft part of Connor's side until his brother turns back to him.

“Stop the abuse,” Connor says. “Now, yer gonna be good or what? Do ye need anything else?”

“Will ye read to me if I ask real nice?” Murphy raises his good knee to shield the incoming attack just as Connor grabs a pillow and throws it at his head.

“I'm not actually Ma, ye know. Next thing I know, ye'll want me to sing ye to sleep.” Connor gets up with a dramatic sigh. “Twins, they say-”

“But that can't be right,” Murphy cuts in, grinning like a mad person. “Obviously, there was a mistake.”

“Stop stealing my lines,” Connor demands, glaring fiercely before he throws his own pillow as well. “Go to sleep, yer intolerable.”

“Keep telling yerself that,” Murphy says, grinning until there's no further reply and he's left to stare at Connor's back.

It's weird. This train of banter is supposed to go on for longer, they're not that creative and the choreography is well-used.

Sitting up, Murphy frowns around, but there's no sudden revelation to be seen, just their dirty apartment; air stuffy with heat and smoke, leftover pizza lying around, some empty cans. Everything as it should be.

It's probably nothing.

With a nod, Murphy gets ready for bed, and by the time they turn off the lights, Connor bickers again.

Aye, just a small hiccup in their routine, nothing more.

*

A week after discovering the nothing, Connor's arm gets crushed underneath him. It's an accident and not his fault, and the arm pokes quite uncomfortably into his back, and Murphy says so. In colorful words.

“Get up then,” Connor mutters and tops it off by ramming his head against Murphy's shoulder like the utter tool he is.

Murphy closes his eyes. This is nice, bony arms poking him or not, and if he can't see, he won't know about the nothing either - a look he can't read, a tense limp he didn't expect, a hand that helps him so readily he feels as if Connor believes him to be incapable of doing anything on his own. It's always things he can see, which makes it reasonable, Murphy reasons, to keep his eyes closed.

“Murph.” Connor sounds incredulous, and Murphy grins in the direction he believes his face to be. “Ye are aware that yer crushing me, no?” The direction is right, Connor breathes against him in a wave of crackers and beer, familiar enough Murphy startles for a moment. Then he remembers they ate and drank the same and he grins again. “How on earth are ye drunk from that?”

“I'm not drunk,” Murphy says, wiggling until Connor's arm is under his neck instead of his back.

“What're ye doing then?” Connor asks, voice on the very edge of weird. “If not being drunk.”

That's a good question, but Murphy resists the urge to open his eyes and consequently end the ongoing niceness. “This is me getting comfy,” he says instead, rolling his shoulder until his brother gets the hint and takes his bloody elbow out of the way.

The offending arm disappears under the pillow, then the mattress dips. Murphy cracks open one eye and finds himself confronted with a close-up of Connor's jaw. His brother lies stiffly, hand hovering over him like he doesn't have a place for it to go.

“Sure yer not drunk?” Connor asks, voice definitely weird now. “Murph, do ye have a brain injury?”

“What?” Murphy glances up, right at Connor's nose. “I don't have a brain injury,” he says, but the thought takes root anyway. This isn't how he is. Maybe the nothing didn't come from Connor at all, maybe it came from him and he just didn't know it.

Connor's lips brush against his, soft and dry.

It feels like a test, and Murphy is too stumped to form a single thought until the brushing evolves into a kiss and he knows the nothing isn't him alone. It's Connor as well, his hand on his side and the tips of his fingers just shy under his shirt. It's Connor's breath against his lips and Connor's fingers feeling for his ribs, and it's himforgetting to ask or protest or move, letting himself be kissed until Connor inches off. His hand wanders down to his navel, skirting his thumb around it, dragging over the hair on his belly.

They're so quiet, he can almost hear the sound of it as the thumb strokes lower, right over the bit of fat he never quite manages to lose. Murphy holds his breath, keeping it in, counting the seconds, holding on until he can't anymore. Then he rushes it out with a quiet moan.

“There?” Connor rumbles in his new-weird voice.

The spot is nowhere Connor should touch or want to touch. His brother shouldn't know about its existence and he most definitely shouldn't touch it again now that he knows, but most importantly, Murphy shouldn't allow it. He lost a fight he didn't know they were having.

“Can I kiss ye there?”

It takes him a moment to decide between the genuine question of why the fuck Connor would want that and moaning again without meaning to, and then Murphy does neither and nods instead.

With hands as gentle as they never were, Connor pushes him on his back and exposes his chest, maneuvering around his legs as if he's mindful of his injured knee even in this colossal moment. His breath tickles, stirring the hair Murphy was never self-conscious about up until Connor's lips press against it.

Murphy sucks in air, fleeing the touch even as his blood rushes down. Connor's groan vibrates through him, settling right in his fucking heart and rattling his mind enough he finally opens his eyes.

The image of Connor bent over him is disturbing, fitting too readily in his mind like a piece of a puzzle that's been missing without him ever wanting to find it. This isn't bad. It's wrong - he can live with that - but it's not something he needs to happen.

Deep down, he thinks he would've liked to fall asleep like that; Connor's arm around him, his smell in his nose, his warmth close.

This—this is okay as well. If Connor wants to, he won't object.

“All right?” Connor rasps, quiet with his fingers on the zipper of his jeans.

Murphy stares down, momentarily overwhelmed by the fact that he _knows_ Connor isn't asking about what's all right with him. He's asking what is proper. He fucking honestly wonders about propriety while he's already in the process of undressing him. “Aye,” Murphy says even though it's a lie. His brother knows, he guesses, but Connor pulls his pants down nonetheless, careful over the brace, and goes so far as to take off Murphy's socks before he looks at the proof of what his mouth does to him.

“Ye like it?” Connor croaks, bending down to press a kiss against his thigh.

Somewhat obvious, his cock bulges in his briefs, and Murphy wants to blush and yell at the same time. He settles on nodding—which Connor doesn't see, busy as he is mouthing his way up his thigh.

If someone threatened him at gunpoint, Murphy may admit to having thought about this before, in an abstract way like rushing over the line after a too intense fight. A clash of teeth, shoving at each other in haste to get out of their clothes, something resembling a fight more than anything else.

Surprise isn't what swells the lump in his throat, making it impossible to speak. The act itself is expected, but the execution isn't, and Connor is going to turn this into something that is not meant to be.

“Murph.” Connor stares, lips at the seam of his briefs. “Do ye?”

This will ruin them.

Murphy reaches down, hooks his thumbs under the elastic, and pulls until Connor gets the hint and takes over.

His cock slaps on his stomach, a fucking wrong thing to show his brother, and Connor doesn't spare it more than a glance before he crawls forward and reaches for the last of his clothes.

“Sit up.”

His shirt comes off, leaving him bare.

Connor has seen him naked thousands of times and in various states of arousal. It couldn't be helped, and Murphy tried not to think about it in detail—in the firm belief Connor was doing the same. A wrong conclusion, judging from how Connor looks at him, cheeks red and lips parted in a breathless smile as he descends on him.

Skin itching for hundreds of reasons at once, Murphy takes a sharp breath as Connor finds a sweet spot between his ribs he wasn't aware of having. He thrusts up, hissing in pain when he strains his knee, and flops back with his face on fire.

Despite being busy with his nipple, Connor presses his leg down, rendering him immobile without even looking up. He always knows. He always cares, even now he pauses to check his reactions as he makes his slow way over Murphy's chest. It's unnecessary to drag this out, and Murphy wants to tell him, but he also yearns for something that might be approval.

Starved for contact without ever being denied contact, he's clung to Connor for a while now, and if this is what Connor wants in return, it's all right.

Carefully, Murphy bends his good knee and thrusts against Connor's shirt. Nothing solid, nothing to relieve the tension in his groin. “Con,” he says, and it comes out as quiet as if this is happening in the dark of the night instead of a fully lit room with his fully clothed brother on top of him.

Connor makes room for himself by parting his legs, palms rough on Murphy's thighs and underarms bracketing his hips. “Do ye like it?” he asks again, and again he looks at his face rather than the evidence in front of him.

“Yeah,” Murphy says thinly.

“That's good.” Connor licks his lips, finally looking down. “That's good, Murph. I like that ye like it,” he says, sort of quiet even as Murphy's cock twitches up under the close inspection. “Can't tell ye how much.” He dives down to kiss a line over the length of his cock, and Murphy bites back a groan, one hand fisted in the blanket while the other finds its way to Connor's neck.

In the harsh light, the Holy Mother stands stark in contrast, hopefully turning a blind eye to his pinned form, locked in place by Connor's lips pressing his cock against his belly, the bed underneath him, the floor, the building, the fucking earth below. He's immobilized, and his heart nearly beats out of his chest as Connor licks up the fluid that builds for him, tasting him there before he's tasted his mouth.

The thought sits wrong, cutting him somewhere Murphy has no care to look for. He stares, fingers ghosting over the collar of Connor's shirt as Connor takes him in around a muffled moan. It's intimate and slow and nothing like it was supposed to be, and when Connor looks up, his eyes are so dark Murphy nearly loses his mind.

Connor _enjoys_ this. He enjoys sucking his cock.

“I love ye,” Connor mumbles against him. The look on his face pulls a whine from him he wasn't aware of holding back, then Connor wraps his hand around what he can't fit into his mouth and strokes in a counter rhythm to his head, fucking clearly set on finishing this.

Alarmed, Murphy bucks up, warning ready on his tongue—

The wet heat disappears.

“I'm not sure that I can swallow it all,” Connor says. “But don't hold back.”

He couldn't even if he wanted to. “I fucking wouldn't,” Murphy says, jerking in surprise when he hears his own rough voice. “Swallow, I mean,” he adds mulishly. Connor laughs against him, a nice sound he could hear all day, then he bows down like he means business, hand fast and lips stretched wide.

Who knew he had it in him, who knew—fucking fuck, better no one, better fucking no one, this isn't something Connor is allowed to do to anyone, ever, this has to be the first time, it just has to, no fucking way Connor goes around sucking cocks of other men like a fucking—Christ, fuck.

Murphy sobs and grips Connor's head to keep him down and his cock in because this is vital and he's allowed to, and Connor doesn't protest but takes him deeper, and then he does swallow, groaning, doing so good, not spilling anywhere, looking up for—for approval, working him until Murphy hears again and sees again, until he's drained by his brother who wears all of his clothes and looks at him like he's done an amazing fucking accomplishment by coming down his throat.

“Con,” Murphy says, but Connor scrambles up to his knees already, hands shaking and slipping on the button of his jeans. He pulls himself out and jerks his cock with frantic movements. “Ye did good,” Murphy praises, senseless, and Connor rips off his shirt and comes into it without leaving a drop of his come anywhere.

Which probably means it's over, and also that Connor is very tidy in bed.

Something he is aware of now, without wanting to be.

Connor bends to kiss him again, a quick and damp affair, then he's off the bed blathering about their ever-growing laundry pile. Maybe he got it out of his system or maybe that was it and it's over for good. Whatever it will be, Murphy guesses he should be dressed for the occasion. As nice as it is to see Connor's face light up with his new smile, there's no need for a repetition.

*

The smile seems to be perpetual. It comes with Connor's fingers around his shoulder, his neck, his upper arm, other times with Connor's lips pushing against his only to leave as quickly as they came, random and unexpected and nice.

So very nice, in fact, Murphy wants to go so far as to describe the following days as perfect, but it's a bit much even in his own mind, so he settles on _pleasant_ and leans back against Connor's arm, snuggling in without snuggling in.

The stretch of imagining a situation where they would've ended up in the same position without the nakedness happening before, just sitting on the couch watching bad daytime TV—it's not too far. It could have happened under normal circumstances, too.

He guesses.

Connor snorts at a dumb joke. He pinches his side, the fucker, and laughs in his ear.

“What?” Murphy gripes, flicking against Connor's fingers until his brother retreats, very wise.

“Not listening?” Connor asks, right into his hair with his nose buried in, and Murphy wants to fucking cry, overwhelmed with thoughts of the past days at once; Connor beside him, hands lingering, idly playing with his hair, handing him a smoke, a beer. Thigh warm against his own and smile easy, it was so perfect Murphy almost forgot.

Connor's eyes didn't. They know, and the quality of his looks changed a great deal even if the rest of him didn't.

“What yer thinking about?”

Murphy clears his throat. “Nothin'.”

“Oh, really?” Connor says, a laugh in his voice. “Turn 'round so I can see ye.”

Murphy turns to glare at him. He's kissed.

It's more a laugh than a proper kiss, and then it's over again and Murphy sits, musing whether this a thing now and whether he should want it to be.

He still isn't sure when Connor maneuvers him to bed and wanders off with a look that promises nothing good. Murphy squints, decidedly not looking at what his brother is up to by the wardrobe, and starts the aggravating process of peeling his jeans over the brace. By the time he's freed himself, he's ready to plop down and close his eyes.

“Wait. Murph, don't ye sleep now.” Connor, rubbing his hands like a villain in a bloody Disney movie, marches back over with intent. Murphy jerks back, just in case, then his brother is there already and lies down next to him. “Take off yer pants.”

“What're ye rubbing yer hands for?”

Connor smiles, dimples and all. He looks actually cute this close, above him on his elbow. If it weren't for the lube in his hands. “To warm it up,” he explains.

Murphy gestures at his very flat boxers.

“Yer not hard yet? How can that possibly be, a bloody mystery, unheard of.” Connor rolls his eyes and nudges him with his knee, denim rough against Murphy's thigh. “I don't actually believe ye possess the power of reading my mind, ye knob.”

“Shut it.”

“I'm gonna get ye there,” Connor rumbles, and Murphy sits up to lose the only barrier between his brother and his soft cock lying bare to the room—while still wearing his shirt and Connor being fully fucking dressed. Again. When he lies back, Connor scoots close enough to breathe against his ear, arm on the pillow above them.

“Hope it's warm enough,” he says, closing his hand around—all of it. The whole soft package and then only his balls.

“Fucking what-” Murphy jerks his legs apart to flee the slick kneading, face burning. The palm rolls his balls so fucking expertly, he's going to be hard in no time, Jesus fuck. “Hail Mary, fuck.”

“That good, eh?” Connor grins, and Murphy closes his eyes. It's ten times more intimate at once, the darkness adding to the slick sound of Connor's hand and the noises he lets out himself, mortifyingly needy.

He wants to sleep. That was the plan.

His shirt is shoved up, catching under his arms before Connor's hand comes back to tug the size out of him, learning him so fast Murphy whines, clutching the blanket. He thrusts up, hissing in pain as he forgets about his knee again. “Feels like fucking,” he rasps, eyes open again, staring without seeing.

“Quit it,” Connor mutters. “Lemme do the work.” His hand trails down, gripping his balls. “And aye, that was the idea. Didn't think ye never tried it before.”

The searching tip of a finger probes him, and Murphy keens in alarm, even more alarmed when he fails to close his legs and simply _lets_ him.

“I bought it with this in mind,” Connor says as he closes his hand around his cock again. “Been thinking about using it on ye for fucking days.” He swallows, loud in their closeness. “Weeks.”

Longer.

Connor twists his fingers around the head, and Murphy arches his back with an awful moan, fingers tight in the blanket.

Longer. Months. Or even—

He comes.

Connor jerks him through, smearing through slick and come while thrusting against his shaking thigh. “Don't think I can...”

“What?”

“Wait for ye to rejoin the living.” Connor laughs against his cheek, then he lets go and fumbles his pants open. The mess on his hand slicks the way, fucking obscene, and he's already panting like he's running a marathon. Murphy stares at the cock pushing in and out of Connor's fist, fucking floored by finding out this isn't a bad thing at all. The sight even makes him breathe out a small, harmless moan.

“Yeah,” Connor says, voice thick like he's never heard it before.

This isn't supposed to be hot. It rattles his mind, clogging it up nice and good, and then he's kissed again and Murphy moans without control or plan.

The kiss turns proper and fast and messy, sliding wetly all over everywhere until Connor inches off and whispers a string of renewed secrets into his ear—into his _mind._ Encouragement, flattery, praise. Another love confession, said carelessly as if his brother thinks it's so very obvious, there's no need for him to explain.

When Connor comes, it's with his name on his lips said like a prayer, and Murphy wills both his heartbeat and rekindled arousal down to send an actual prayer upwards. As a means to ask for forgiveness maybe, or to ask for guidance.

They lie in silence until they catch their breath.

Connor ruins his last clean shirt for the occasion of wiping sweat and come from them both while tittering about a story Rocco told that Murphy didn't listen to in the first run either. He lights a smoke and shares with him, monologuing on as he turns off the last light and climbs back into his bed.

“All right?” he asks in the dark.

Rolling on his side, Murphy makes room for the voice that doesn't sound sure like during what they did, as if Connor still doesn't understand how good it feels to have him close. “Yeah,” he whispers.

They're naked, making it hard not to heat up the atmosphere again. Connor's tentative arm wraps around him from behind and his breath stirs his hair, and then it's too late already. He's hard and there's nothing to be done about it, but Connor isn't; he's soft against him, weirdly intimate. Murphy wiggles until his back is pressed right against Connor's chest, skin sticky and hair rough.

It's all right.

*

It's still all right when Connor piles up every pillow he can find and builds a mound for him to lie on.

Without his clothes and with his legs spread apart to let Connor kneel between them.

“Okay?” Connor asks. “Does it hurt with yer leg? We can-”

“It doesn't,” Murphy cuts in because it _doesn't_. This is the only position Connor could think of - which he said he did, thoroughly - that won't put too much pressure on his knee and allows Connor access at the same time.

A minute goes by, stretching time in the embarrassing position he's in. If it weren't for the hand on his back keeping him grounded, he'd roll away—and the hand isn't even moving. It rests on his back as if Connor froze while staring at his arse.

Which hopefully isn't the case. It's hairy and it has a fucking hole, there's nothing extraordinary about it.

He guesses, at least, because he hasn't actually paid attention to other people's arseholes before, and the plan was to put something in it, wasn't it, that won't happen just from looking at it—bloody fuck, he's hard.

Murphy wiggles until his cock presses more comfortably against the pillow-mound, face heating up when Connor pulls at his butt cheeks and exposes him more than he thought possible.

“I'll start, then,” Connor declares. The cap of the lube snaps open, followed by the slick sounds of him coating his fingers.

It's been a week since Connor slept in his bed, and he knew this was coming. Or maybe it's been coming for years.

It's okay.

Murphy presses his cheek against the pillow, submitting rather dramatically as Connor works a finger into him. His brother is slow and careful about it, but his free hand keeps holding him open rather than stroking his back, and the loss of contact feels more disappointing than reasonable. Murphy shifts, taking a deep breath to stifle the regret creeping up in him.

“All right?” Connor rasps, and simply knowing he's the one who put the roughness in his voice, to affect Connor like this with his own body and actions—oh.

Oh.

No.

“Murphy.”

“Aye, fuck,” he mutters, trying to hold onto the thought.

A second finger pushes into him, burning when the stretch proves too quick.

Riling Connor up and getting him horny isn't his doing. He isn't doing a thing. He never did, it was all Connor, every time.

“Say if it's too uncomfortable,” Connor says. “Or if it hurts, of course.” He sounds like he has no experience to draw from, and Murphy changes course to forget everything about the thought he tried to hold onto.

“Keep going,” he says, knowing it's the wrong answer for them both.

Back to whispering encouragements, Connor stretches him for so long, the corner of the pillow stops pressing against his cock. For the sake of his sanity, Murphy decides that if he doesn't consciously feel for it, he doesn't have to know whether the lack of feeling uncomfortable is because his cock slipped into a nicer dent or whether it's because it shriveled up.

The pillows hide it from view, thankfully, with every lamp in the fucking flat shining on every other part of him.

He has to review the thought when Connor withdraws his fingers while keeping him open. The bed creaks and breath ghosts over him way too fucking intimately, and then Connor kisses him.

There.

“What the fuck,” Murphy whispers, muffled by both his arm and his unwillingness to be heard. What the _fuck_ , indeed. There's no word for how wrong this is, and wrong isn't the right word either. Disgusting—no. Awful—too negative for such a harmless touch.

A sin.

That's better.

Something crinkles. “I'll put on a condom, aye?”

Why is he asking?

“Don't,” Murphy says.

“But-”

“Ye sick? Ever did it without?”

“Murph, no, that doesn't mean-”

Murphy licks his lips. “I have it, ye have it.”

Silence follows, stretching the time with it.

Connor knows he's right. He shouldn't have said it out loud, but they're past each and every boundary anyway. Connor wouldn't ask if he had a serious illness, and if he has and knows nothing of it, Murphy wouldn't know how to go on—they're in it together. It doesn't matter.

It should've been left unsaid.

“Con,” he starts, but then Connor's hands are on him again, one on his butt and one on his back, and something else pushes into him. It's as slick as his fingers were, but the stretch forces his breath out of him nonetheless. Out of Connor as well, underlined with a sound that shoots right into his heart. His cock twitches pathetically, and Connor starts thrusting too soon, hands roaming over his back while he mutters under his breath.

Maybe even the word 'sin' is too harmless.

“Fuck, I- Murph, I don't think I'm gonna last for long.” Connor groans, fucking into him—no, it's gentler. “Yer okay? Does it hurt?”

“Nah.”

“Nah yer not okay or nah it doesn't hurt?”

Murphy cranes his neck to glare at him, but the angle is wrong and he can't keep his balance with Connor shoving both at him and inside of him. He turns back to the pillow, focusing on the rough hands and the sounds straight out of a porn movie even as his chest tightens thinking about a word that's gentler than fucking. “Can't believe yer trying to be a pain in my arse in every way,” he says at length.

Connor smacks him, fucking unexpected. “Can't believe yer being cheeky while being fucked,” he says, breathless. The hand leaves his butt and wanders to the thigh of Murphy's good leg, curling around the meat and pushing it further to the side. “Tell me when I'm too rough,” Connor says, and then there's no more talking.

He misses it, strangely.

Connor takes, frantic and loving and losing his mind in the meantime, judging from his crazy mumbling, and Murphy holds on until Connor comes, spreading weird warmth where before was friction.

When Connor pulls out, the warmth tickles after, making him clench his arse on instinct. Murphy rolls off the soft mountain, kicking with one leg to make room to lie back. Out of breath, he fights the mighty urge to rub his eyes.

One look later, he gives in to get a break from Connor and his scarlet face. He can still hear Connor's panting, though it does slow down. Every breath comes with a labored sound underneath as if he's forcefully controlling it, and Murphy doesn't want to know.

“I'm,” Connor says. Then, “Murph.”

Nothing else comes.

Murphy drops his hands and is met with a frown.

“Didn't like it?” Connor asks roughly, glancing to and away from his face with such a bummed look, Murphy reaches out before he knows it, fingers curling around Connor's knee.

“Was okay,” he says, trying for a smile he doesn't feel yet. It won't do to blame his brother for the fact that his cock softened somewhere along the way. It's nobody's fault.

“Okay,” Connor repeats. He swallows, raising his knees, and Murphy lets his fingers slip, rubbing his thumb over his ankle like Connor did to him, back then. Before they went wrong. “Should I've done something different? Is there something ye like more or maybe-”

“Connor,” Murphy says, mainly to stop him, not because he has any answers.

“We won't do it like that again, all right? I'll- We'll think of something.” Connor nods, sort of desperate, and Murphy knows what's coming even before Connor opens his mouth again. “I can make ye feel good. Tell me what ye want.”

Nobody's fault.

Murphy catches his eyes, trying to convey how really fucking _okay_ this is. “I could use a smoke?”

Connor sits motionless.

“That's what I want,” Murphy says. He looks away. “And maybe, dunno.”

“Maybe what?” Connor whispers. He doesn't sound bummed anymore. He's fucking devastated, and that wasn't the plan.

“Sleep here tonight?” Murphy shrugs, squeezing his ankle. “I know it gets crowded, but...” Come trickles out of him and ruins the sheets, and what he said isn't enough.

He gets his smoke nonetheless, and he gets Connor behind him, though there's no arm around him, which is a bloody tragedy.

For a few minutes, Murphy lies without moving, not sleepy in the slightest despite the late hour and the warm bed. Even if he were tired, Connor radiates enough tension to keep up the whole block, and _they_ don't have to feel his absent touch. In this small bed, it should be impossible to get comfortable without touching anywhere, but his brother seems to have discovered a hidden talent for it.

“Con,” he says, inching back toward his sticky warmth.

“Here.”

Murphy turns around, staring through the dark. Connor's expression is unreadable without any light, but he doesn't need to see to know. “I didn't not like it,” he says quietly, inhaling the sigh puffing against his face. “There are things I like more,” he offers. “If ye still want to know.”

“Aye.”

“Okay.” Murphy licks his lips, then he turns around again, smiling for no one to see when Connor mutters a soft curse. He scoots back until his back is pressed against Connor's chest and he manages to wrestle his arm around him—which proves to be more difficult than expected. Lately, nothing is as expected anymore. “This,” he says, finally comfortable.

“This,” Connor says, dumb.

Murphy closes his eyes and nods, also dumb. “I like other stuff too, of fucking course, but I won't tell ye just now. Obviously.”

“Not obvious to me,” Connor says, very quiet, and all of a sudden, Murphy knows something is broken now.

“To keep myself interesting.”

There's nothing left to say.

They fall asleep, eventually.

*

As soon as his knee is up for it, they're back to lurking at McGinty's, and Connor develops the unfavorable habit of either frowning or making sad eyes in his direction until his looks turn passive, almost blank.

Murphy finds he doesn't like either of those looks, they can only mean bad business, but ignoring them works fine for a while. A nice, blissful while during which he jokes and smokes and works and drinks and watches movies and becomes awfully proficient at pretending he doesn't feel the storm brewing up.

*

He tries revealing what he likes into random conversations, but Connor, the endless knob, either doesn't catch on or doesn't particularly care to know about it after all, so Murphy drops it again. Their newfound closeness dissolves into thin air, including any and all activities that end with orgasms or being on the way to achieve one—or general closeness that involves fewer clothes than socially acceptable.

It gets to a point where he wants to throw himself at his brother, demanding to be allowed to set things right, but he also wants the topic to be over and done with, so in the end, Murphy does what he does best in that part of their relationship: nothing.

Until Connor carries a chair over from the table, puts it next to the couch Murphy is lying on, and proceeds to watch TV.

“Connor,” Murphy says after he scrapes together his functioning brain cells. The other parts are occupied with yelling insults in various languages and on various topics.

“What?” He isn't looking at him.

“Ye've got to be shitting me,” Murphy says, going for friendly because the storm wasn't a storm after all, it's a tornado and it's about to come. “Why're ye sitting over there? I would've made room, ye know. If ye'd said something.”

“It's fine.”

Murphy nods and lights a smoke. When he finishes it, he's not only done with the smoke but with his bloody brother as well. “Spill.”

Connor doesn't, he lights his own smoke instead.

“So, ye changed yer mind,” Murphy says. “Good to know.”

That gets Connor to look up, at least. He stares at him out of huge eyes, shoulders lifted in an incredulous shrug. “I changed my mind? Me, Murph? I didn't change a thing, I just _understood_.”

Stomach clenching, Murphy swings his legs over the edge and sits up. “What's that, then?”

“Don't make me say it,” Connor says, voice weirdly soft. Too soft, way too—Connor fucking knows. He knows about the conflicting thoughts in his head, the awful feelings pulling him in two directions at once.

“Want to go back to how things were?” Murphy asks, swallowing. “Because I don't. I don't.” He finds out it's not a lie after a fucking painful noise gets stuck in Connor's throat, and then he's momentarily blinded by panic. What to do now, what to fucking _do._

“I waited, Murph, and nothing came from ye. Not a bloody thing. I'm trying to get over this, why the fuck-”

“Ye waited?” Murphy cuts in. “But I-”

Connor shoots up, sending the chair flying, and points at him. “If yer telling me this is some fucking kinky shite of yers, I'll break yer fucking jaw! Ye were passive, and if ye wanted- But ye didn't say so, that ye like it when I take control. Don't lie!”

“I'm not lying,” Murphy says, swallowing again. Connor is getting over him while he bemoans his situation because his brother doesn't want to sit on the couch with him. “I just didn't think about it.”

“It,” Connor says, dropping his smoke in the ashtray. “Me, ye mean.” He towers over him while looking small at the same time, lost as if he has no idea what to do or say to resolve this. Which makes two of them. “Did ye even like what we did? Did ye ever think about it before, without me bringing it up?”

He has no answer, and his non-answer takes too long.

“Ye didn't.” Connor stands motionless, staring down at him with an open mouth. “I got it wrong. I was wrong and-

“Connor.”

“Ye should've said so!” Connor cries. “What on earth were we having fucking sex for?”

Murphy digs his fingers into his thighs. “That was something ye did to me rather than something we did together.”

It's quiet. It takes several moments for him to realize what he said, and then his mind is reeling.

“Ye mean that?” Connor whispers, taking a step back.

“I don't,” Murphy stresses. “I don't mean it like that, Jesus fuck.”

With a sharp turn, Connor aims for the door.

Murphy crosses himself, eyes burning. His hand shakes and Connor said he loved him, multiple times. “If ye go now,” Murphy says, “Con, ye go now and I'll convince myself that's all ye wanted after all.”

Fists clenched at his sides, Connor stops at the door. “What would that be? To fucking rape ye?”

“But ye didn't!” His voice breaks, and Connor turns around again, eyes wild. “Just because I didn't get the chance to—to like that too, doesn't mean-”

“I didn't notice!”

Up from the couch and through the room, Murphy rushes over and grips Connor's face, holding on tight when Connor flinches back.

“Ye know what got me going when I wasn't in the mood?” Murphy urges. “When ye moaned against me because ye liked it so. Doing that to me. And when we fucking kissed, I got hard thinking about it for days.” They're frozen, making him acutely aware of the stubble under palms, the sweat tickling on his back. “If ye want, I can tell ye more.” He looks and looks, waiting for Connor's nod, barely there. “All right, the last time ye slept in my bed, remember? Didn't take ye long to fall asleep, and then ye turned and my nose was right in yer hair-”

“Stop,” Connor croaks. “I let that happen. I let ye persuade me to sleep in yer bed to help me lick my wounds because ye didn't even stay hard, Murph. That was for me, to make me feel better.”

“Shut up.” Murphy huffs, and though he doesn't doubt it's true, Connor doing something for himself in this clusterfuck of a situation actually warms his heart. He hurt him without meaning to.

It wasn't his fault, but it wasn't Connor's either.

“I was ready for another round because—ye know,” Murphy says. He drops his hands, arms hanging limply. His cheeks feel hot, but everything has to come out now or they'll never get past this. “Could feel it leaking out of me. Had to clench all the while and I thought 'he did that', and then I thought I'd wake ye so we could try again.” He swallows, face burning. “But I didn't.”

“Aye, ye didn't.” They look at each other until Connor averts his eyes. “When I kissed ye that first time, ye let me. Ye didn't say no, Murph. I thought ye would, but ye didn't and I was so fucking happy about it and everything after, but ye never- Ye never fucking-”

“I never touched ye back,” Murphy supplies, shame knotting his stomach until he's sick enough to lie. “Ye didn't let me.”

Connor chokes on a breath and Murphy doesn't dare reach out again.

“Brother,” he says because they are. Then he's empty, out of ideas.

“I would've fucking let ye, don't ye dare say I wouldn't have let ye do whatever ye wanted. Anything. I just wanted to make ye feel good and I didn't- It was supposed to be _us_ , not me on ye.”

Enough.

“Connor.” Murphy sways forward, skin tingling, too tight. He itches for—for everything. Everything Connor has to offer. “We're brothers.”

“Fucking stop saying that.”

“But we are,” Murphy gripes before he reigns himself back in. “Now let me think.”

Maybe Hell can wait. Or maybe Hell doesn't even apply. It's not sinning if it's negotiated. A sin has to be committed spontaneously, no? No, it doesn't.

Fuck.

But if Connor is to burn, then he can't very well leave him alone down there. They're supposed to go together like they always do, with everything—though that _,_ he definitely won't say. Murphy swallows. “Take off yer clothes.” Nothing happens. “Come on,” he says, licking his lips without making contact in case Connor gets skittish again. “Take them off, aye?”

“ _Why_?”

“To move past this bloody awfulness.”

“Even if that made any sense,” Connor says, taking a slow step back, “I'm not in the mood for any of that now.”

Murphy aims, saying, “I wasn't either.” It's the lowest of low blows, rattling his mind with how cruel he can be, and then he uses Connor's own words. “I get ye there,” he says, inching forward. “Like ye did. Now let me, please.”

Connor looks like he's nearing his breaking point and the only question left is whether there'll be a fistfight or angry fucking.

He votes for the latter, maybe a combination of both choices. If that's what Connor wants. It's important now, bloody insane, but it is how it is. “Ye love me. Ye said that,” Murphy says, close enough to feel the warmth Connor radiates, soaking it up into his soul. “If I'm to love ye back, ye've got to let me try.”

“This is fucking terrible,” Connor mutters, eyes shiny with fucking hopefully something other than tears. “I don't want it like this.”

“Ye've got a better idea?”

Connor swallows, a thick sound, somehow hot despite the desperation surrounding them. “Don't bring up my love for ye again,” he says at length, voice firm and determined. Completely at odds with his hanging shoulders. “There's a limit. It can be crossed.”

“Yer lying,” Murphy says, staring at Connor until he sees the nod that isn't more than a breeze of a movement but still enough to loosen the chain around his chest. All of this was supposed to stay hidden, and now there's chaos and the confirmation of unlimited love.

Murphy flares his nostrils and circles his fingers around Connor's wrist.

“I'm not taking off my clothes.”

“Why, yer shy now?” Murphy asks, trying for a grin.

“It's inappropriate.”

“More inappropriate than putting yer cock into yer own brother?”

Connor sort of wails, and Murphy pushes up to him, shoves his nose against his throat, and takes a deep breath. He smells heady, raising the wild urge to taste as well.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Connor says dully, making it fucking difficult to turn this into something nice.

He has to make do, there's no going back now.

Hands on Connor's waist, Murphy presses a small kiss to the fluttering skin over his pulse. His lips drag over fine hair, following the line of his jaw as he slips his fingers under Connor's shirt, feeling the goosebumps rise under them. “Lift up.” The shirt comes off, revealing a blush that crept down over Connor's chest. Murphy follows it with his fingers, brushing through even more hair, even rougher. He swallows and looks up to catch Connor's eyes. “Wanna lie down?”

“Not really.”

Murphy bares his teeth because he was fucking stupid enough to make it sound like a question instead of demanding—no, instead of telling—fuck. He grabs Connor's hand and presses it over his cock. “See?” he stresses. “It's already working. Ye just have to trust me, is all. I know what to do.”

The last part is a lie and Connor surely knows it, but Connor's hand applies steady pressure nonetheless, feeling for the outline, mapping the length beneath the thick layer of his jeans—

“Wait,” Murphy says. “Connor, ye knob. This is supposed to be about ye, about me learning ye.”

Connor groans, staring down at his working fingers, and Murphy swats him away.

“I can't bloody think with yer hand on my cock,” he says as he pushes Connor back, conveniently toward the nearest bed. “Now lie the fuck down.”

Connor does, shirtless and arousal obvious despite the haunted look in his eyes. “I don't get what changed,” he says, though he scoots back on the bed until he's properly on display. “I just don't understand what ye like about it if ye didn't before.”

“Me neither.” It's a lie, maybe, for whatever reason that happens all the time. He leans forward, fingers on the zipper of Connor's jeans. “Show me?”

Connor nods, pliant as he lets himself be undressed.

It hits him like a drug, being able to look at Connor so blatantly. At his strong thighs and the flush on his chest, trailing down until the hair on his belly takes over, getting thicker around his half-hard cock. Murphy takes a deep breath and stutters it out with a moan, fucking lost.

“What's the difference?” Connor asks softly. His face, the fucking handsome face Murphy wouldn't know what to do without, looks as lost as he feels himself, and Murphy doesn't _know_ the answer.

“Because I can touch ye now,” he tries.

“Murph.”

Fine.

“If ye love me with all of this,” Murphy says, looking Connor over as he climbs on the bed, “I'll see if I love that part of ye as well. Because I just- I already love the rest, ye know? Ye on me and in me and hearing ye moan cause ye feel so good and-”

“All right, fuck.”

Despite the long recovery, his knee protests as Murphy kneels and shoves Connor's legs apart without a struggle, leaving even more of his brother on display. He clears his throat, hand on Connor's thigh to stop wondering what it would taste like, that part of Connor's cock that fills out now. Connor did it. He should've demanded a real kiss back then, to get a taste.

“The feeling of yer come leaking out of me,” Murphy says, continuing with his list of things he likes as if they just now stopped having that conversation. “I liked that a lot.” Face hot and eyes on the prize, he stops trying to be coy and glances up one last time. “I'm just gonna look,” he says, “But I need to know where the slick is.”

“What?”

Murphy rakes his fingers through the coarse hair around the base of Connor's cock, hand shaking only a little when he parts Connor's cheeks and stares at the most intimate place he can imagine; the only part he's never seen.

It twitches, clenching as if to hide from view.

“Murph,” Connor says, or maybe he moans. Maybe his name was the moan.

With a nod, Murphy sits back, and then it's too much. He palms himself through his useless jeans and ruts forward, hand on Connor's leg for support. “That'll work just fine,” he states. “We can do this properly now.”

“One look's enough for ye to decide ye fucking want me?” Connor gripes, face scarlet and cock standing firm. “Now yer suddenly bloody fine with us having sex?”

“Aye.” Murphy pulls his shirt over his head. “If what I think about while looking at yer arsehole is how I can get ye to show me how to stretch ye open-”

“Jesus fuck.”

“Hail Mary.” His jeans land beside the bed, socks and boxers follow. “Or how I can get ye to do it like in—in those movies. Ye know. That licking thing.” His face burns. He straddles him, scooting forward on Connor's thighs until they rub against each other, very inappropriate. “Then I suppose it's safe to assume I'm on board,” he finishes, rolling both his eyes and his hips.

Connor grips his thighs. “This okay?”

It is, it is—his knee fucking hurts. “I can't move like this.” Murphy whines, sliding off with a load of regret so big he's surprised it fits into the room. “Sit on me, come on.” He rolls onto his back, hand around his cock to relief at least some pressure—before he remembers what's missing and he's forced to fend his brother off again. “Wait, bring the slick,” he demands, panting even though they haven't done anything yet.

Connor moves at once, bustling through the room at a frightening speed, naked and unashamed and bloody glorious. “Ye've got the best fucking ideas,” he says, bottle in hand as he comes marching back. “But-”

“Sit the fuck down now or so help me, enough with yer bloody 'buts'.”

“ _But_ ,” Connor says, straddling him with an agility that's uncalled-for. “If I'm to do this now-”

“We,” Murphy cuts in, toes curling in anticipation.

“Fine, we. Ye've got to be sure.” Despite his words, Connor slicks him up generously, then he reaches for his own cock and lowers his voice. “Don't tell me afterward again. Tell me now if yer not sure.”

It will break his heart.

“I want this,” Murphy says thickly, and then they stop talking and start moving.

It's as good he thought it would be, especially when Connor leans down, pressing him into the mattress with his bloody lips destroying his higher brain functions. It takes a moment to find a rhythm that works, and his knee still twinges and Connor doesn't stop licking into his mouth for long enough to let him catch his breath, and there are no more love confessions.

He misses them, Murphy thinks, bucking up into Connor's solid body, but maybe it's as Connor said; maybe there is a limit and he said it often enough.

*

The sheets need to be washed, urgently so.

Murphy grins, bumping his nose against Connor's chest, ear pressed right over his heart. It thuds heavily, only a bit less frantic than before. “What do ye love about me?” he asks the chest, mostly because he can't imagine what it could be, but also to compare what he could love about Connor. Or if he maybe already does.

“Don't be greedy now,” Connor mutters as he curls his fingers around his neck, sticky with lube and whatnot.

“But I am,” he says. “So tell me.”

Carding through his hair, Connor stays silent for long enough to wipe the smile off Murphy's face, forcing him to crane his head and look up. Against his worry, no stink eye greets him, no frown or impassive face. Connor simply—thinks.

“Ye,” he says eventually.

Murphy chokes on a breath, fucking unreasonable. “Yer a knob,” he croaks, rising on his elbow to stare close up at Connor's smile. It's directed at the ceiling, and it's as beautiful of a sight as seeing him laid out before him for the first time. Fucking stunning. His heart is going to give out from it.

It's bloody obvious, he was just too stubborn to see it.

“Are ye having a revelation?” Connor asks politely, and Murphy is over it already. This isn't new, it's just him realizing.

“Nah.”

Connor rolls his eyes and pulls him back on his chest. When he speaks again, it rumbles, vibrating against Murphy's cheek. “I never thought ye'd want this.” He strokes over his back. “I thought if I had ye, we'd fuck. Not this.”

It's said without any heat. A simple statement, grinding his thoughts to a halt. “I don't know how to respond to that,” Murphy says honestly.

Connor shrugs, moving them both. “Dunno, nothing, I guess. Ye asked, I answered. It's just one thing I love, ye being into cuddling or whatever.”

“Yer not?”

Connor shrugs again, oblivious to his screeching mind. “Don't need it that much, I guess. I'd sooner get ye naked instead of getting the idea to cuddle, but it's no _hardship_.”

That sits heavy, quieting his thoughts until he's forced to admit the problem isn't a problem; it's just a thing, neither good nor bad. “Fucking isn't that important to me,” Murphy says, and for once, he knows it's the truth, utterly. “But it's no hardship,” he adds, grinning and planting a kiss on Connor's chest just because it's within reach.

No hardship at all, no problem, no need to discuss it at length. Just one of the many differences between them, and maybe, soon, he'll love Connor for wanting this part more than him as well. It's a good goal to have, he thinks, rolling off to reach for a smoke.

“Yer in?” Connor hypnotizes the smoke like that craving is way worse than any negotiation they've got going on.

Murphy holds it out to share and blows some leftover smoke in the other direction. “This bed is awfully small. When Rocco comes over, we can't have them pushed together.”

“Murph.”

Murphy rolls his eyes, warm all over. “I'm planning how to get ye to be the little spoon without getting cramps in the tiny space, I thought it was obvious.”

“We move the beds back in the mornings,” Connor says. “He won't find out.”

They finish the smoke and turn off the light.

It's quiet, with Connor breathing fast enough to indicate he isn't asleep yet, letting himself be cuddled despite it all; the too small bed, the dirty sheets, Murphy's sticky front plastered to his back.

“I love this,” Murphy says, somewhat amazed. He scoots closer, brushing his nose against Connor's neck. “I love having this with ye.”

It's close, it won't be long now.

Connor breathes out a soft sound. “If ye don't plan on another round, go put some clothes on.”

“Oh,” Murphy says, inching off and then right back again, shoving his groin up to Connor's arse just to hear that sound again. “Use yer mouth?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Connor takes him in, uncaring about the lube on him and the hardness that isn't there yet. His moans are louder and he loves this more, and maybe that will always be the case, but it doesn't make this better or worse. It makes it real.

In a good moment, he should say it even if it takes a little while longer for it to be the truth.


End file.
